I Have A Thing For Deep Golden Indian Cleavage...

I felt awkward and knew I was pressed into this stranger behind me and tried my best to just pull any part of me forward.Seconds passed and I felt him begin to get hard against my lower back. I did not move. I just pretended not to notice. Then he actually pressed into me just a little bit more. I was shocked, but still pretended not to notice. But, now was beginning to get turned on by his arousal. I smiled to myself and I just leaned back the slightest bit pressing my bottom into him. No one would know it had been deliberate, not even the stranger behind me. I was wearing a knee length skirt made of light cotton. It flared out loosely. I felt this stranger's left hand slid up the back of my left leg ever so lightly moving my skirt up too. I froze, but I still just stood there. I felt his finger walking the fabric up inch by inch until his hand touched my bare thigh. I nervously looked to the right, but no one noticed anything. We were isolated in that corner. I was totally aroused. Mom and Steve talked for a few minutes and Steve left. The next night mom and Steve go out to dinner. While I wait for them to return I am sitting on the sofa in a pair of pink satin panties and a bra, painting my nails, when the front door opens and in walks Steve and my mom. I ask them how dinner was and Steve looks at me with a "What the hell" look on his face. My mom smiles and says dinner was fine, but could I go put something on.I go into my room and put on a pink satin robe to cover up.As I am in my room I hear Steve ask my mom, "What's going on there?" My son likes to dress in women's clothes," she replies."Wow, that's kind of hot," Steve says.I just smile as I am relieved that he is not judgemental as some folks are.I go back into the living room and mom says we should watch a movie. I am fine with that. So we choose our movie, mom and Steve sit on the couch, mom laying down, putting her head in his lap. I curl up in the chair and we proceed to watch the movie.As we watch, I.
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